Cold Chicken Soup for a Cold
by thequietfangirl95
Summary: John is sick in bed with a cold, but all is not as it seems Note: I'm sorry in advance..it's quite dark


It's such a waste to leave your light down in the darkness to fester. Let me take you out of that pit, bring back that everlasting warmth of yours to where you belong. By my side, lend me your shoulder that was so solid and safe. Let me remember you as you always were.

Home.

* * *

"John...it appears you are still in a degraded physical state enough to prevent you from coming along on this case...again."

"Oi don't call me degraded, it's just a normal cold, I'll be up and chasing you around London again in a few days." John let out a repressed cough as Sherlock raised one eyebrow unconvinced.

John pushed himself up against the headboard to level Sherlock a look in reply.

"Run along Sherlock, I'll be fine, didn't you tell me last night how you hadn't had a good serial killing since Christmas? Just go, I'll still be here when you get back."

Sherlock hesitated a bit before giving John a curt nod and headed out the door.

He paused in front of the kitchen. He could still hear John wheezing painfully in his room thinking Sherlock had left.

John hadn't left the bed in weeks, he didn't seem to get any better nor any worse.

But John was right, he could handle himself fine, what was the point in wasting brain space worrying about it.

Sherlock quietly shoved his arms into his coat and slid out the door, leaving a cup of hot tea on the table outside John's room, the steam curling its misty tendrils in the dim sunshine.

* * *

It was only at around midnight that Sherlock flopped onto the sofa of 221B, assuming his usual annoyed at the world foetal position.

He was honestly disappointed at the quality of criminals nowadays, it was such an open and shut case hardly worth his time.

The only reason it had taken hours to actually get the killer into custody was because of Anderson tampering with the evidence once again.

The culprit had left behind so many obvious clues that even Lestrade could have seen the links, but noo it was Anderson's crime scene so they had to do it his way, good thing Sherlock had got there before he had destroyed the incriminating dirt clods left on the third victim.

He rolled over letting out a deep sigh, it had all sounded so promising in that last text Lestrade had sent, he thought it would be another challenge like Moriarty but then again there would never be another one like him.

As he turned his head he noticed the still full cup of tea on the table. It had gone cold in the night air. Sherlock felt something sink a little inside before shaking it off.

Sentimentality.

John hadn't left his room at all then. Sherlock stood outside the bedroom staring blankly at the lonely mug.

Since John had been confined to his bed Sherlock had not seen John drink his tea at all.

That was odd enough, normally whenever felt out of sorts he went for his precious tea first.

Sherlock hadn't seen him eat either. John always said he did, waving him off with reminders for Sherlock himself to go eat instead.

"John?"

Sherlock creaked open the door to the dark room. The moonlight illuminated John's peaceful sleeping face among the pillows.

He was breathing much clearer than this morning. Sherlock let out the breath he hadn't realise he was holding.

He shuffled under the covers next to John's quietly snoring figure.

Sherlock hadn't even bothered to change out of his clothes, John would bother him about that when he woke up.

But that was irrelevant at this time.

He released the control over his protesting body and let sleep overtake his busy mind, lulled to sleep by John's presence.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open in the morning light streaming through the window.

John was still fast asleep, like the dead as John had often joked.

Sherlock checked his phone, no text from Lestrade.

Sherlock looked over at John's sleeping figure, it was boring without John to talk at.

Sherlock shuffled towards the kitchen, he could finish off some of his experiments.

Molly had given him some more cadaver parts to test the rate of decomposition in different soil types.

John hadn't come out into the bathroom to see the mess so Sherlock had free reign over the flat for now.

It would be a different story when John was recovered.

He could do that, but there were still 6 hours til the next observation time could be recorded.

He glanced at the mug he hadn't washed up yet.

What was that thing you have to do for sick people?

Sherlock had looked so confused when John shoved a hot bowl of chicken soup in his face.

It had been a few years ago and Sherlock had fallen into the river like a tit as John had yelled at him for being stupid and jumping in with the criminal.

He'd caught a cold and John had made him chicken soup for some reason.

That was apparently what 'normal' people make for colds, it makes you feel better he had said.

Sherlock had been skeptical but drank it anyway.

He put it down to the nutrients but he guessed it had a psychological effect associated with the comfort it brought.

Like a placebo he concluded.

It wasn't that Sherlock couldn't cook, cooking in its elements was a precise science.

Sherlock just hadn't felt it necessary to do so when chasing murderers on a regular basis.

Mrs Hudson had been to Tesco in John's stead two days ago so there should be something to work with.

Sure enough Sherlock pulled a whole chicken still wrapped in plastic from behind the jar of thumbs.

After an hour of trial and error and a mishap involving a wooden spoon Sherlock looked proudly at the clear broth he ladled into the bowl. Sherlock carefully placed it onto John's bedside table.

It would be the first thing John would see when he got up.

Just to be sure Sherlock quickly scrawled on a post it note, sticking it the side of the bowl 'For John'.

Sherlock sideeyed the clock. Five more hours left before he could continue his experiment. He was so bored.

His phone beeped. Lestrade. Sherlock checked his message.

Something of great importance, come to Scotland Yard asap.

- GL

That looked promising. Lestrade had better not let him down again.

Sherlock spared another look at John's still sleeping visage. Well John wasn't going anywhere, not in his condition.

He would still be there when he got back, he was Sherlock's constant in a world of variables.

* * *

"What is it Lestrade, is there a case? a serial killer, a note anything?"

Sherlock didn't need deductive reasoning to see the tiredness and apprehension clouding Lestrade's sullen face.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade stopped, unable to really form coherent words.

Sherlock gave an impatient sigh.

"I didn't want to call you out for this one Sherlock...but we've had no leads for a month now...I'm out of options..."

Sherlock widened his eyes in mock surprise. "A whole month Lestrade? Getting more stubborn aren't you. You normally call me in a day or so into the case, I'm impressed."

Lestrade threw Sherlock a weary stare. "And here I thought you'd be less of a dick about this, but what do I know...I'm just the incompetent inspector as always huh."

Lestrade smiled a little "Still it means you're getting better, it's great to see you back to your snarky self Sherlock, I mean compared to how you were when..."

Sherlock was attempting to process the meaning of Lestrade's words. It wasn't correlating, what did he mean 'getting better'.

Sherlock wasn't sick at all, how could he have gotten better?

Lestrade appeared reluctant to continue with this train of words, he took in Sherlock's utterly confused stare, not really comprhending Sherlock's predicament.

"Look it's probably easier to just show you...I know it's hard but I have to bring you there."

Sherlock snapped out of it, his eyes alert with curiousity, had he deleted something?

This was the first time he was ever ignorant to any case Lestrade had posed, from what he could gather it obviously had a close connection to Sherlock personally.

The road they took felt familiar. Too familiar, yet it was like he had deleted the events involving it.

This was not helpful.

Lestrade was silent the whole way, there was a tense and solemn atmosphere pervading the car.

All of a sudden it hit him. "Lestrade the cemetary?"

"Yes...there's been a grave robbing..."

Sherlock grinned despite the uncomfortable grimace Lestrade was making.

Oh good, this was new.

"Sherlock you really are over IT aren't you?"

"I don't know what you are referring to Lestrade, now give me the details."

Lestrade took a deep breath mulling over the right choice of words.

"Well...last month we came by to check the gravestone, you know put fresh flowers and stuff like that, but someone had disturbed the dirt and knocked the headstone a little lopsided with a shovel..."

Lestrade spoke delicately as they weaved their way around the maze of grey stone plots and unecessary cherub ornaments.

This all felt eerily familiar to Sherlock, but he couldn't quite pinpoint it.

"Well we didn't think much of it but we had to check...I really didn't want to do it either but we got reports from the caretaker..."

Lestrade was taking his time with this. "Just get to the point Lestrade I don't have all day."

Lestrade had given up believing Sherlock could really learn any tact even to himself.

"Yes yes anyway long story short his body wasn't there and we've been trying to recover it for the last month but whoever did it left no trail."

"Was there any apparent motive?"

Lestrade eyed Sherlock with something between worry and wonder.

"You really are amazingly calm about all this, I can't believe how much you've recovered, or how fast...especially after what a wreck you were...you were the one to find him..."

Sherlock's brain was whirring through his mind palace for any sense of recognition of Lestrade's words.

He must have deleted it all, there was no trace.

Sherlock froze in place. "Well here we are, it's been a while hasn't it Sherlock."

Lestrade's voice had become obscured into the background as Sherlock focused on the messy grave with the tilted gravestone.

He focused on the words engraved into the black stone.

Two words. Two very familiar words.

John Watson.

"...-I mean Mycroft and I had you on suicide watch for the good part of the year, you wouldn't leave this grave in the beginning, had to drag you away. You really put up a fight back then..."

Sherlock couldn't hear him, it was just background chatter.

"-and then just when we thought you'd never leave your room again you started to recover and take cases again...I thought it was all good-...hey Sherlock?"

"John..."

Lestrade moved closer to Sherlock. "Are you okay? Is this too much for you?"

"...John...how..."

Lestrade's nostalgic smile collapsed in on itself as he saw Sherlock regress back.

"Oh no, shit I thought you were better...Sherlock please tell me you didn't delete this.."

He had deleted it. It was the best option at the time.

Unless this was a dream...it had to be. HE'D JUST TALKED TO JOHN...how could he be dead...he made tea and chicken soup and John had bugged him about forgetting the milk...he was sleeping in bed with a cold that was all.

"Sherlock do I need to take you home?...Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly.

"Ok then let's go, I won't call Mycroft so just go home and have a lie down and we can go through it all in the morning."

Lestrade spoke softly and gently led him back to the car.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to 221B. "Sherlock will you be ok? should I stay here?"

Sherlock forced a straight face "Yes it's just the shock, I just need the blanket and I'll be fine..."

Lestrade didn't feel at all confident about this assurance "...If you're sure..I'll be back to check on you then."

Sherlock ignored him and headed up the stairs.

He could feel it slowly come back to him. He opened the door to the bedroom.

"John..."

John was sitting up smiling brightly at him "Sherlock I'm all better I think! told you I'd be fine after a bit of a kip."

No.

Sherlock blinked his eyes clearing away the illusion that had clouded his vision.

No... that wasn't real.

He opened his eyes again to look at reality once more.

John's empty corpse was propped up in the bed.

Sherlock had tried to preserve him best he could with the techniques available but he had already started to decompose from being left underground for a while. He had halted the rotting process at least, the smell was covered up by the different chemicals he had used to technically pickle what was left of John.

John was sitting in the bed, but it wasnt really John was it...just an empty vessel.

John had died. Shot himself with the same gun he had used to protect Sherlock for so long.

All because Sherlock had 'jumped'. All because of Sherlock.

"John" Sherlock's voice echoed brokenly in the empty flat.

"...John"

* * *

"I'm sorry Mycroft but I honestly thought he was over it! I mean he was all over the cases again just as arrogant as he used to be!"

"My brother will never JUST get over anything...especially not this. What were you THINKING."

The two men walked up the stairs of 221B, after greeting a worried Mrs Hudson.

"Oh Inspector Sherlock's been too quiet last night, usually I hear him chatting away to that skull of his I assume. I hope he's not gone into a mood again."

Mycroft and Lestrade gave each other a nervous look as the possibility dawned on them.

"Sherlock you didn't..."

Lestrade broke the door down to Mrs Hudson's horror, they all picked their way through the mess of experiments to the partially open bedroom door.

"Oh...Sherlock.."

* * *

That was how they found them.

Sherlock pale and reposed with John's rotting remains locked in his embrace on the bed. There was a dreamy look on his face. He wasn't breathing.

The needles scattered all over the bedsheets. Empty.

The bowl of chicken soup still sat there, untouched.

It had gone cold.

* * *

Author's note: I am so ...sorry...don't kill me for this...I did warn you it was tragedy. I originally wrote this as punishment for my friend after she skipped her exam and it was waaaay more triggering. I hadto tone it down here.

I like reading your reviews so please drop in and tell me how you felt!


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